


the roots of love grow all around

by owilde



Category: The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 70's, F/F, F/M, Historical References, New York City, Polyamory, Romance, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 23:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15783915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: Bronx, New York, 1977. Violet works for a record label, scouring through clubs and bars in search of talent.That's how she meets Clementine.





	the roots of love grow all around

**Author's Note:**

> Playlists I listened to while writing: [The Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975](https://open.spotify.com/user/spotify/playlist/37i9dQZF1DX94QVAxB7Dum?si=gCYUwPVCQBmXw34KmsEEsQ) / [All Out 70s](https://open.spotify.com/user/spotify/playlist/37i9dQZF1DWTJ7xPn4vNaz?si=Bq3zNdquT8ygSOksvHN5Fg)
> 
> I'm not American (shout out to Finland) so, you know, I did research but I'm by no means any sort of expert on either New York or New York in the 1970's. Take things with a grain of salt! Though actual historical events are referenced/experienced.
> 
> I had no beta reader, so. All mistakes are mine. Title taken from Jimmy Ruffin's "What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted"
> 
> (Added note: find me on tumblr @ wilderogers)

The alley was dimly lit and dirty, like most alleys in that part of Bronx tended to be. The ground was scattered with cigarette stumps and stepped on leaflets promising impossible jobs during the recession. No one was taking the bait anymore. Jobs had diminished faster than anyone could’ve count to ten, and only idiots still believed that there was anything available for decent pay in conditions that didn’t raise hairs.

The one source of light was spilling through the cracked back door of the club, bathing the wall opposite to it in dull yellow tones that shimmered from the gathered evening mist that clung to the bricks like a second skin. The dark night sky was overcast with heavy gray clouds that promised rain sometime later, and the oppressing weight of an impending thunderstorm pressed against everyone’s shoulders.

Violet took another drag of her cigarette, tilting her head backwards and letting her mouth open, the smoke puffing upwards. She closed her eyes with a sigh, feeling the weight of her day on her tired lids.

Another gig, another paycheck. If only this time nothing went wrong, and she could be paid both on time and the right amount. Her mouth pulled into a frown at the memory of the last job, months and months ago. She’d gotten 60% of what had been promised, despite a job well fucking done. Two whole weeks of scouting the sleaziest places she could think of, and she’d found her diamond in the rough, hadn’t she?

Minnie had been like a second coming, and just as fucking miraculous. Two weeks Violet had spent, night after night, sneaking in through back doors and listening carefully for just the right sound, just the right kind of rasp and melody. And Minerva – oh, her _voice_. It was melted butter, it was grovel crushing under your feet on a long country road, it was a crackling log fire during mid-winter.

Violet had been hooked the very first second she’d heard her crooning _The Chain_ , standing in the middle of the small stage with her hair done up and her eyes closed, fingers wrapped around the microphone like it was her lifeline. She’d looked like what Violet had always imagined singers would look like, and drop-dead stunning to top it off.

Her eyes flickered open, and the clouds stared back at her, expressionless and void of answers to questions Violet didn’t want to ask. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it under her heel, seeing the little bright orange sparks scatter around and die out.

Minnie had been the unachievable dream, and then a daytime fantasy; she’d been the gentle brush of a hand against a shoulder and a soft kiss against her lips. She’d been a nonchalant _love you_ , and a hurried, ink-spotted letter hidden in Violet’s drawers.

And then she’d been gone.

Violet lit another cigarette, frowning down at the ground. It hadn’t been her fault, but it sure as shit felt like it. She had no one else left to blame – she’d tried them all, and ran into a wall each time. Her employer of the time – sure, but it had been her who took the job. The club owner who let Minnie go – sure, but it had been her who’d asked her to leave. A dozen other people in an expanding spiderweb, at the center of which was always, always Violet.

What screwed Violet up the most was that she hadn’t even left a note. One evening, Minerva had been there – and the next morning, she’d disappeared without a trace. Just like that. And Violet still had no answers.

Her chest ached, once and sharply. Violet blinked as a drop of water splashed against her arm, and glanced up at the sky. Another drop hit her nose, and she scrunched it out of reflex. She flicked her cigarette away and slipped inside the club through the open back door, disappearing into the ever moving shadows.

The inside of the club smelled like intoxicating, piercing perfumes and cigarette smoke. Everything was bathing in warm red and orange tones, coming from the stage lights above. Violet made her way through the rows of haphazardly placed tables, looking, for all intents and purposes, like she belonged. She was wearing deep blue velvet pants with wide hems and small stones that sparkled in the lighting of the room, a white ruffle shirt tucked under her waistline and shimmering golden platform shoes that lifted her to barely a 5’3.

No one spared her a second glance. She took a seat near the end of the room, secluded from the spotlights and away from the line of vision from the main stage. It was easier to focus that way, she’d found.

It didn’t take longer than five minutes before an announcer walked up to stage to introduce their singers for the night. He was a lanky, purple-clad man, whose grin seemed to shine brighter than all the lights in the club combined. He reached for the microphone, and the feedback screeched once and loud, making Violet cringe.

“Ladies!” He started, his warm voice resonating around the small space. “Gentlemen, welcome, welcome. I hope you’ve all found your seats alright, and that everything is goin’ great for you on this _mighty_ fine night.”

The audience clapped, Violet reluctantly included.

“It shouldn’t be any kinda surprise that tonight, we’re blessed to have not only one, not two, not three, but _four_ performers grace us with their divine presence,” he continued. “Let’s welcome our first number, the one, the only, the lovely – Diana Bright!”

Violet leaned back against her plush chair and closed her eyes. The red hues were bright enough to shine through, shadows moving across her vision. She could feel the audience shuffle around, could hear their sharp intakes of breath as Diana Bright walked on stage in what Violet presumed was all her glory.

She didn’t need to know what Diana looked like, not yet. All that mattered was how she sounded. If it didn’t click right away, the rest was irrelevant. Diana Bright could be the most gorgeous woman on Earth, but that wasn’t enough. Not for Violet’s employee.

She’d learned her lessons with Minnie. Minnie had been too much beauty wrapped in one person, and it had ruined her. That, and Violet.

The soft beginnings of _What Becomes of the Broken Hearted_ started playing. Violet let herself sink into the beat, trying to melt against the chair and become nothing, to hear nothing but the music and Diana Bright.

She sounded good, was Violet’s first thought. Soft, yet strong. But there was an undercurrent to it, something that Violet couldn’t quite get a hold of. Something that was holding her back. A rough diamond. Violet didn’t have the time for rough diamonds. She knew they could shine, and they could shine blindingly well, but she needed someone who already outshone the rest of the room away.

One song blended into another, one artist into a different one. None of them made Violet feel anything. All of them were brilliant, talented – but none of them had the _spark_ , the small burning flame that made them special, different.

None of the had what Minnie had been. But maybe that was a good thing, she thought. Maybe that was better for them.

Violet was about to give up for the night and switch into a different place when she heard commotion around the room – excited whispers and hushed praises. Her curiosity peaked, and she remained where she was, hidden in the shadows with her eyes closed.

They’d switched to the last singer for the night. A hush had fallen over the audience – you could’ve heard a pin drop as the singer walked on to the stage, her shoes clopping in an echo. There was a pregnant pause, an adjusted microphone. And then, she started singing.

Violet’s eyes flew open.

A woman was stood in the middle of the stage, wrapped in a dark green two-piece pleated dress with an exposed midriff. The fabric seemed like it had a life of its own – it shifted and danced as the singer swayed gently from side to side, like a tree moved by the wind. Her dark short hair curled around her head and stopped beneath her ears, exposing long silver earrings that draped down like glittering water.

She was singing _Ain’t No Sunshine_. Violet couldn’t take her eyes off her, but her voice pierced through the muddle of her thoughts regardless – it was the spark. It was the flame. It was the something special Violet had been looking for.

She made her way through the song with ease, her eyes that were lined with gold flickering across the audience. She kept breaking into a smile, lost in the music and the tempo. She looked like she belonged.

She sang three more songs, all the while Violet sat in her chair almost as in a trance, trapped by her presence. When she finished, she thanked them all in a voice so different from her singing that Violet had to take a moment to realize it had really been her. She walked backstage, flashing a smile at someone there before disappearing behind the curtains.

Violet was up in seconds, pushing her way through the club and towards the back door. They all eventually filtered out there, she knew. Sometimes it didn’t take long, and sometimes she waited for hours – but that was what they paid Violet for.

It had started to rain. Violet shrugged her jacket on and turned the collar up, for all the good it did. She fished a fresh cigarette from her pockets and started fiddling with her lighter. It was a piece of shit, barely worked half of the time.

“Fucking work,” she mumbled under her breath, the cigarette hanging loosely from her lips. “Piece of garbage–”

“Need some help?” A voice asked, sounding amused.

Violet looked up. It was the singer. She was smiling with a twinkle in her eye, holding an umbrella in one hand and a lighter in another, extended towards Violet.

Violet took it hesitantly, dropping her own back to the bottom of her pocket. She flicked it, and it worked flawlessly; Violet felt the warm glow of the flame on her hands for a moment, before the cigarette lit and she handed the lighter back, taking a drag and blowing away from the direction of the singer.

“Thanks,” she said, eyeing the singer. “I heard you in there. Sounded pretty wicked.”

Her smile widened. “I try,” she said. She took a step closer, so that Violet was covered by the umbrella too. “I’m Clementine. Nice to meet you.”

“Violet,” Violet said. “I’d shake your hand but you’re a bit too close to comfort for that.”

Clementine laughed. She’d found a tan leather jacket with a beige fur lining, and Violet could feel her arm press against hers. “I saw you,” she said. “Back in there. You were sitting pretty far.”

“Would you have liked me to be closer?” Violet asked, before she could realize what was coming out of her mouth. Her smirk dwindled. “Or, I mean, you know–”

But Clementine only laughed again, seemingly not bothered. “I don’t know,” she said, shooting Violet a warm, curious look. “You’re not too sore on the eyes.”

Violet choked on the smoke for a second, coughing violently. She wheezed for a short while, as Clementine looked at her with mild concern. “Then you should’ve seen yourself,” she threw back once she got her breathing under control, dropping her cigarette and stomping on it, channeling her embarrassment into it. “Not too bad, yourself. Especially with that voice.”

“Geez,” Clementine said, smiling. “You’re just full of compliments, aren’t you?”

Violet was about to reply when the back door flew open. Her eyes snapped towards the sound, and found the host from before standing there, wearing a similar jacket to Clementine’s and grinning widely.

“Clem,” he breathed out, spreading his hands. “Clem, Clem, Clemen _tine_ – you killed it again, you know that?”

Clementine took a mock bow in his direction, not moving an inch away from Violet. “So I heard,” she said. “Louis, this is Violet. Violet, Louis – an annoyance, back-up pianist, manager and boyfriend wrapped into one too loud of a person.”

Violet’s heart took an involuntary plummet. “Oh,” she said, wishing suddenly she hadn’t said anything back to her flirting. “Nice to meet you, Louis.”

Hearing the shift in her tone, Clementine turned to Violet, eyes wide. “Oh, don’t worry,” she hurried to say. “We’re not… I mean, we’re together, but it’s not – like, we don’t–”

Louis laughed, stepping towards Clementine and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “What this blundering mess is _trying_ to get to is, I don’t mind other people. And she doesn’t mind, either. It’s all good.”

“Oh,” Violet said again. Her heart was in her throat. “I didn’t meant to… impose.”

Clementine put her hand on her upper arm, smiling sweetly. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. “Don’t worry,” she said. She laughed a little, shaking her head. “I’m sorry for making this awkward.”

“It’s fine,” Violet assured her. She could hear the rain drizzle against the umbrella, and tried to focus on that. “I didn’t mean to make this awkward, either. I only wanted to say… you sound good.”

Louis grinned proudly. “Hell yes, she does,” he said. “I keep telling her, we need to move up the ladder. These places are fine, but these places don’t exactly guarantee sold records.”

Clementine rolled her eyes. “And I keep telling _him_ , I don’t mind these places. I don’t mind not selling records. I just like to sing, that’s all.”

Louis gave Violet a look, like, _can you believe this?_

But Violet was happy with what she heard. If Clementine just wanted to sing, and if she meant it sincerely, she could maybe make it work. The record label Violet was currently employed for seemed honest enough – as honest as record labels could be. They could make her into something, into a star.

And if Violet helped, and if she had Louis, then maybe… maybe Clementine wouldn’t end up like Minnie had. Maybe she would stay here.

Violet stared at the wet ground, watched the rain wash the dirt away the best it could. She looked up at Clementine, who was arguing with Louis over the semantics of fame.

“I could help,” she said, cutting their conversation short.

Both Clementine and Louis turned to look at her, brows raised. “Help?” Louis asked. “With what?”

Violet shrugged. She wanted another cigarette. “The ladder,” she said. “I could… make you move, if you want to. I work for a label. They’re looking for new sounds.”

No one spoke for a while. Violet’s stomach fluttered with nerves she hadn’t felt in a while.

Then, slowly, Clementine and Louis broke into identical grins.

 

*

 

Clem – as she insisted Violet call her – and Louis walked her home that evening, pressed on either side of her, the umbrella shielding them all the best it could.

_The subways not safe_ , Louis had said persistently. _For anybody. Best to avoid that_.

Violet knew about that, of course. You’d have to be an idiot to live in New York and not know about the muggings and other shit that had become a commonplace. Violet had taken to walking everywhere, shoulders hunched and shooting cold glares at anyone who looked at her twice.

It had worked, so far. But the comfort provided by the presence of other people wasn’t exactly unwelcome, and her guilty conscience was eased when Clem told her they lived right around the same block, so they weren’t going out of their way to be courteous, or anything.

They’d left Violet with their home number, and Violet promised to give them a call as soon as she’d talked to the label. The number, scribbled on the back of an old receipt, was straightened and pinned to her fridge. Violet looked at it every morning while making her coffee, slowly memorizing it. Just in case, she told herself.

She didn’t want to lose the tentative, invisible line she’d created between them. It was so easy to never see or hear from people again – if she at least had the number in her mind, she could always call.

The rain continued for a few more weeks, strangely persistent. Spring showers, the forecast said. It was late March, and the temperatures were starting to climb higher than usual. It boded a stifling hot summer that made Violet feel anxious and restless in advance.

Three weeks after meeting Louis and Clementine, and after scouring through countless different clubs every night in search of anyone who could compare to Clem, Violet finally felt confident enough to go back to report on the situation.

Her employer had never explicitly given her a specific time frame, but Violet felt if she took too long, the number of zeros on her pay check might dwindle.

One cloudy Friday she hiked through Bronx to where she knew the label’s headquarters were. The bell attached to the door rang shrilly through the reception room as Violet stepped inside, wearing her usual boots and black leather jacket, adorned with various badges.

The woman manning the counter looked up at her, barely sparing a glance at Violet’s buzzed sides or piercings. The plaque on her desk named her to be Lindsey.

“Morning,” Violet greeted, walking up to the desk.

Lindsey sighed, returning back to her book. “Please mail your demo through the address given on the front door,” she said, sounding bored. “We’re stocked on punk bands for now, but we might give it a shot–”

“Nah,” Violet interrupted. “Don’t worry, I’m not here about that. I’m here to see the boss.”

Lindsey looked up at her, unimpressed. “The boss?”

“You know,” Violet shrugged. “Mr. What’s His Face. Starts with an M, I think.”

Lindsey lifted a single brow. “Mr. Moreno?”

Violet smiled brightly. “That’s the one. Can you give him a call? Tell him, Vi’s found someone.”

Despite her beleaguered sigh, Lindsey picked the phone up and dialed a number. It rang for some time, all the while Lindsey kept her eyes on Violet, as if trying to make sure she didn’t do anything to her office. As if Violet would. Not unless she did something worthy of getting trashed over.

There was a click, and Violet heard a voice speak on the other end of the line.

“Good morning, Mr. Moreno,” Lindsey said, her tone taking a sudden shift to pleasant. “Mmh, yes – yes, I understand, and I apologize for interrupting – it’s only, there’s a woman here claiming to say she has found someone for you. Mmh, yes – Vi, she said, yes – no, I don’t know if it stands for Violet – does it?”

Violet nodded. “That’s me.”

Lindsey shifted her eyes away from her again. “Yes, it’s Violet. Should I have her wait – no? Oh, of course, I’ll send her up right away, Mr. Moreno. Yes, I remember the special instructions. Okay, thank you, thank–”

The line clicked shut. Lindsey eyed Violet with a deep frown, like everything bad in the world was her fault. “Take the elevator,” she instructed, sounding sour. “Fifth floor.”

Violet gave her a wide grin and thanked her, before walking into the elevator. The doors slid shut, hiding Lindsey and her angry perm from view. Violet pushed the button for fifth floor and leaned against the wall, her arms crossed.

She just needed to make Clementine sound like the best choice, while undermining her talent just the smallest bit. If she gave too much, they’d get curious – they’d turn her into a deity in their minds, their next big shot, their golden goose – and if they did that, then Clementine was bound to get hurt.

Violet had seen what fame did to people. She’d seen it in the papers, in headlines of suicides and disappearances. She’d seen it on the hallways of recording studios, in desperate eyes and scratchy voices. She’d seen it first hand in Minnie’s growing irritation and mood swings, in her partiality to brandy, and the way her world had come to revolve around numbers; how much had they sold, how much could they, should they, would they?

It was crushing to see. Violet wouldn’t go through it again. Clementine would be different.

The elevator binged, and the doors swished open. Violet stepped into a large office space, the same one she’d last been to over a month ago. The walls were painted red and decorated with newspaper clippings from Bronx News to The Times, with framed vinyls. There was a shelf of prizes, a few plants, and in front of the main desk, two chairs.

Violet walked over and took a seat on the right one, resting her ankle on her knee and leaning back as much as she dared to without knocking the chair over.

Mr. Moreno, who’d been staring out the window with his back to her, turned around. He was a middle-aged man, decently nice-looking with dark sleeked back hair and a pinstripe shirt unbuttoned too far down his chest. He’d rolled his sleeves up. There was a cigarette dangling from his lips that he took between his fingers and stumped out on an ashtray as he sat down opposite to Violet.

He leaned his elbows against the wooden desk and rested his chin on his crossed digits, eyeing Violet with calm precision. “Well?”

“I’ve found someone,” Violet said.

Mr. Moreno’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile that was gone as fast as it had appeared. “Yes,” he said wryly, “I heard. My secretary called, you see, on one of these crazy little things called a phone.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “I went to fifty different places,” she started. “I have small reports on over two hundred singers, but I know who you’ll want.”

“Do you, now.” It wasn’t a question. Mr. Moreno lit another cigarette, and sniffled. “Tell me about them, then.”

Violet did. She’d prepared a speech in her mind, balancing Clem’s talents with her looks, but not overplaying either – not too much, not too little. She needed to nail this, otherwise she could forget the whole thing and call Clem to say she’d failed. If Mr. Moreno took the bait too hard, it would be over.

Mr. Moreno listened to her whole spiel in silence, eyes trained on Violet. Once she had finished, he sighed contemplatively, and glanced at the walls filled with his achievements.

“I see,” he said simply.

The silence dragged on. “And?” Violet prompted once she got sick of waiting.

Mr. Moreno stumped his cigarette and pulled a few papers from his drawers. He scanned them quickly, before sliding them over to Violet over the desk. “Would you please give these to… Ms. Clementine,” he said calmly. “And ask her to come over when it’s convenient for her. She doesn’t need to sign anything by herself – just tell her to bring these papers with her when she does come by. We’ll look at them together.”

Violet put the papers in her bag, and smiled. “Thanks, Mr. M,” she said. “I’ll make sure to tell her.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “We’ll see if this goes anywhere,” he said. “Still, thank you, Violet, for your hard effort.”

He could thank her when he’d heard Clementine sing, Violet decided, as she walked out the building. Then there’d be something to be thankful for.

 

*

 

She called Clementine a few days later, twirling the cord nervously around her finger. Violet wasn’t sure why she was so nervous, safe for the bit about her finding Clementine attractive – but she found plenty of women attractive. They just didn’t usually have open arrangements or make Violet’s stomach fill up with butterflies at the thought of them.

The line rang for ten seconds, which Violet counted in her head, before someone picked up.

“Hello?”

Violet let out the breath she’d been holding. “Oh, Louis. Hi. Could you put Clem on the line?”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis said. He sounded tired, but Violet didn’t ask. It wasn’t any of her business. He paused, as if realizing something. “Is this about the record company?”

Violet let herself smile, just a little. “Potentially.”

“Oh, my god,” Louis whispered, sounding excited. “Oh, my – _Clem_! Come over!”

There was some commotion and hushed conversation, before the line crackled and Clementine’s voice came through, hopeful and scared. “Violet? Hey. Lou said you were calling about the label?”

“Yeah,” Violet confirmed. “The guy who runs the place gave me some papers to give to you and asked you to stop by when you have the time. If you’re still interested, we could… I mean, if you and Louis want to, I’ll show you the place and I can come with you?”

There was a brief moment of static-filled silence. Then: “Oh, my god. Are you serious?”

Violet twisted the cord more aggressively around her index finger. “Yeah. Are you still… do you still want to?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Clem said emphatically. “Of course, that sounds – that just sounds almost too good to be true. I’m just surprised. If you could show us around next week? Say, Wednesday?”

Violet agreed, and they hung up, but not before she could hear Clem’s excited shouting over the line. She put the phone down and smiled, feeling a certain kind of warmth in her chest for the first time since Minnie.

The days until Wednesday seemed to drag more so than usual. March turned into April, and the rainy days stopped, replaced by cool spring winds and quietly blossoming flowers. Despite the worsening conditions around Bronx, despite the arson Violet read about daily on the papers, and despite the spikes in crime rates and despite Gerald Ford, summer was coming.

And there was something so promising about that, and the sudden but quiet presence of Louis and Clementine in her life, that made Violet feel light and calm for the first time in a long while.

They phoned again on Tuesday and promised to meet in front of Violet’s apartment complex at around eleven. When Clementine hung up, she said, _I can’t wait to see you again_ , and Violet swore her heart skipped an entire beat and felt out of order for the rest of the evening.

She hadn’t phoned Mr. Moreno, but from what she’d observed, he was never truly busy. And if he was, they could wait. It would be worth it.

On Wednesday morning, Violet packed the papers in her bag and pulled her boots on. They were getting too hot for the weather, but she was adamant about wearing them, nonetheless. They were old combat boots that she’d decorated with small spikes around the top, and they were long enough to reach nearly up to her knees. She loved them to death.

Violet eyed her jacket, but it was a sunny day and the leather would only feel suffocating, so she left it in the coat rack and hoped it wasn’t too windy outside.

As soon as she stepped outside, she realized it was just that. The wind ruffled her hair and raised the hairs on her arms, but if she now went back for the jacket it would be like admitting defeat – so, Violet crossed her arms adamantly and stood by the front steps, shivering quietly.

She noticed Clem and Louis as soon as they rounded the corner. They both waved at her, wearing similar bright grins that Violet couldn’t help but return. They reached her quickly, stopping at the foot of the steps. Louis eyed her prickled arms and tank top critically for a second, before discarding his own jacket and throwing it at her.

Violet caught it out of reflex, blinking at him in confusion. “I don’t need this.”

“Sure you don’t,” Louis said, raising a skeptical brow. “That’s why you look like you’re freezing to death.”

Clementine laughed as Violet frowned. “I can just go inside and get my own jacket,” she tried, but Louis was waving her complaints away before she could even get to the end of her sentence.

“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “’Sides, it’ll fit you, I’m sure.”

Violet held the jacket at an arms distance. It was beige, with a fluffy collar lining and deep pockets. It smelled like cigarettes and cologne, but it wasn’t the most off-putting smell, so Violet shrugged the jacket on. The shoulders were too big on her, and she had to roll the sleeves over once, but otherwise, it wasn’t too bad.

Clementine tilted her head, smiling. “It looks nice,” she decided.

Violet felt herself flush red. “Okay.”

Louis clapped Clementine on the shoulder, grinning up at Violet knowingly. “Okay, girls,” he said. “Enough flirting, and let’s go make our Clem into a star.”

The walk to the headquarters wasn’t too long. They didn’t speak a lot, too high strung on nerves to focus on any one conversation thread.

Lindsey was behind the counter again, and let out a long-suffering sigh at the sight of Violet, who grinned unabashedly.

“What a nice morning,” Violet said airily as a way of greeting. She walked up to the counter, Clem and Louis trailing behind her quietly.

“Violet,” Lindsey drawled. “And friends.”

“No,” Violet corrected. She pointed at Clementine. “Future star of this company.”

Lindsey looked skeptical. “I assume Mr. Moreno knows about this?”

Violet smiled indulgently. “If you could give him a call, let him know Vi’s here with Ms. Clementine.”

Lindsey picked the phone up with a roll of eyes, and dialed the number. “Good morning, Mr. Moreno. Yes, I’m sorry to disturb you – yes, I know you’re a very busy man – no, it’s only that Violet’s here with Ms. Clementine–” She paused, and eyed Clementine with an odd expression. “Okay. Yes. I’ll send them up.”

She put the phone down, and sighed again. “Apparently, he’s genuinely curious,” she said. She gave Clementine another look. “Don’t blow it, kid. Fifth floor, as always.”

Violet couldn’t help the bubbling sense of anxiety in her chest as the elevator ascended. She swallowed nothing, shooting both Louis and Clem reassuring glances. “It’s going to be fine,” she said. “Mr. Moreno’s very...”

But before she could finish her sentence, the elevator stopped with a bing and the doors opened.

“Mr. Moreno,” Violet greeted slowly, walking in with her hands buried in the pockets of her jacket.

He was gazing out the window again, hands clasped behind his back. This time, he was wearing an orange shirt with blue and green zigzag patterns on the sleeves and a brown velvet vest. At the sound of her voice he turned around, his face a perfect mask of passiveness.

“Violet,” he greeted back. His eyes slid over to Louis and Clementine. “One of you is Ms. Clementine, I assume?”

Clementine stepped forward nervously. “Me. Hi.”

Mr. Moreno didn’t move to shake her hand. “Violet’s told me a lot about you,” he said. “Apparently, you have the voice of… what was it you said? An ageless soul legend?”

Clementine blushed slightly. “Well, I’m flattered, but I don’t know that I–”

“I’d like to hear you sing,” Mr. Moreno chimed in, and Clementine fell silent. “Just you. No backing vocals, no instrumental assistance – just your voice. Any song you’d like, yours or someone else’s. I don’t mind.”

Louis took half a step forward. “Not even a piano?”

Mr. Moreno’s eyes snapped to him. “Manager?”

Louis shrugged. “Among other things. I’m Louis.”

Mr. Moreno smiled slightly. “Well, Louis – to answer your question, no. Not even piano. I’m not looking for perfection, I’m looking for a starting point.” He paused, turning back towards Clementine. “If you would, Miss.”

If you were to ask Violet, she would’ve said Clementine had looked more at home up on that dingy stage with all the spotlights on her that she did now, with just the four of them in the room, all looking at her. She looked down at her feet for a second, and Violet could see her mouth something to herself – what it was, she couldn’t guess. Then she looked up and seemingly before she could change her mind, she started singing.

It didn’t take more than the first few lines for Violet to recognize the song as _Have You Ever Seen the Rain_. There wasn’t a trace of her nerves audible in her voice – she sounded clear as ever, and sure of herself. Clementine let her eyes fall shut as she sang, her voice filling every nook and cranny of the spacious room.

Violet risked a glance at Mr. Moreno, but his expression was indecipherable. Louis took a step towards Violet, knocking their shoulders together.

Clementine trailed off, and silence followed.

Eventually, Mr. Moreno cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said. “Violet, the papers I gave you last time, if you would. I believe there’s some signing to be done.”

Clementine’s grin was brighter than the sun outside.

 

*

 

Violet began calling Clementine and Louis weekly, and then every other few days, and then eventually, it was an almost daily occurrence. It didn’t matter who picked up – Violet liked talking to them both, although the best days were when they both crowded the line and tried to yell over each other, giggling and throwing fond insults around.

They met for coffee at Louis and Clem’s apartment, mostly because it was nicer than Violet's place. They started keeping a special box of cookies for Violet in their cabinet; when she found out about it, she hugged them both so hard she was afraid she might break some ribs.

No one had ever made accommodations for her like that. Well – no one except for Minnie. But the more Violet spent time with Clementine and Louis, the less her heart ached at the memory of her. It never vanished, and it never would – but it wasn’t an overwhelming sense of guilt anymore. It didn’t break her heart to think about Minnie. It was more of a dull pain, a reminder of what had happened and what shouldn’t happen in the future.

Violet told them about Minnie one night as they were sat on the couch watching reruns of M*A*S*H together. She told them about the love, the hurt, and the way she’d vanished and left her to wonder just what the fuck had happened. Clementine had laid her head on her shoulder, and Louis had squeezed their fingers tight, and everything had felt a bit better than before.

April turned to June. The heatwave was worse than what they’d had in a long time – Violet took to habit to keep her windows open during the day and lock them tight during nights, in fear of the increasing amount of burglaries, and especially in Bronx. She couldn't afford to be robbed any more than she could afford moving to a better neighborhood, and besides – it was the same shit everywhere else in New York.

Mr. Moreno decided that Violet was worth keeping around, and had her try to find someone knew each month. No one seemed to compare to Clementine, but Violet figured she was a tiny bit biased. Still, she found nice voices, and nice personalities, and each time she delivered them to Mr. Moreno, he placed his hand gently on her shoulder and smiled, proud.

The muddle and fog left by Minnie's disappearance were finally dissolving.  

Louis and Clementine held a party at their house one evening around mid-July. It seemed to be a given that Violet was invited, so she showed up at six-thirty with a six-pack of Budweiser and a bright smile. Clementine greeted her with a hug, and told her she was more than enough, just by herself.

That was where she met Louis’ on-again-off-again boyfriend, Marlon. He seemed like a decent guy, mullet discounted – and a terrible light weight. A few hours after their introduction, he was sat in the corner of the kitchen with Violet, spilling his heart about politics and the state of New York. They talked and talked, sometimes breaking into shouts and banging the table, only to follow this by equally loud laughter.

Violet didn’t know what time it was when Clementine slipped to the seat next to her and Louis next to Marlon.

Violet turned her head in Clementine’s direction, and grinned widely. “Hi,” she said, and poked her on the nose. “Boop.”

Clementine’s nose scrunched up adorably. “You’re drunk,” she said in response.

Violet lifted her bottle in a salute. “Yes, sir,” she agreed, and laughed a little. “We’re wasted, ain’t we, Marlon?”

Marlon turned from where he’d been talking to Louis, and blinked in confusion. “What?”

“ _Drunk_ ,” Violet enunciated slowly.

“I am,” Marlon agreed, sounding even more confused than before.

“Don’t mind her, Marl,” Louis said, dragging his chair closer. “She’s just drunk.”

Marlon turned to him. “But so am I,” he said.

Louis and Clementine both broke into loud laughter. Violet looked at Clementine, watched the corners of her eyes crinkle and heard the soft tilt of her laughter, and before she could think twice about it, she dragged her in for a kiss.

Clementine tasted of beer, or maybe that was her, and cigarettes, but maybe that was her, too. It didn’t matter – after a millisecond of hesitation, Clementine kissed her back, moving her hand to cradle Violet's jaw.

When they broke apart, Violet realized she was leaning so far out of her chair she was about to drop to the floor. “Shit,” she mumbled, staring down. “I’m falling for you.”

This prompted another round of laughter. Clementine wrapped her arms around her and pulled Violet to her lap, resting her chin on her shoulder contently. “That’s okay,” she said in a low voice so that only Violet could hear. “I think I’m falling, too.”

And that. Well. That was possibly the best thing Violet had ever heard. She huffed, fond and amused and enamored-

And then the lights went out.

Violet could feel Clementine tense up. She staggered on to her feet, leaning against the kitchen table for support. As she looked around, she could see everyone else doing the same, confused eyes meeting hers.

“Probably just the fuse,” Clementine spoke up into the silence. “They’ll be back soon enough.”

They could hear thunder rolling outside. Violet cracked the curtains just in time to see a lightning strike across the sky, illuminating her face in the dark of the apartment. “I think maybe not,” she said, eyes transfixed on the sky. She let her gaze drop down to the apartment complex opposite to them. “They’re out, too. And the building next to it, and I think – the whole block, at least.”

“Shit,” Louis mumbled. He stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. “Is the front door locked? Someone go check that the windows are shut. And I’ll go look for candles.”

Clementine dragged Violet away from the window and to the living room, where everyone was slowly migrating to. They sat together, side by side. Violet pulled her knees up.

“I don’t like the dark,” she said quietly.

“Louis will light some candles,” Clementine said, hooking their pinky fingers. “It’ll be over soon.”

Violet felt drunk and miserable, and scared. Louis appeared a few minutes later with candles in tow, and began placing them around the living room. As he lit them, the knot in Violet’s chest eased a little, one candle at a time.

Louis flopped down next to Clementine, and sighed. “A blackout in a shit neighborhood, a thunderstorm, and a bunch of drunks around a room full of candles,” he summarized. “That sound good to you?”

Clementine was silent for a minute.

And then she began to sing.

Violet buried her head in the crook of Clementine’s neck as she sang _My Girl_ in a quiet, husky voice that lulled her into a sense of security and comfort. Violet thought about tomorrow, and the sunshine. She thought about the way Clementine smelled of oranges. She thought about kissing her again, tomorrow and later and on and on.

She smiled, and closed her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I made [a moodboard](http://wilderogers.tumblr.com/post/177369500536/the-roots-of-love-grow-all-around-wordcount), if you're interested!


End file.
